The Distant Threshold
The fire in the hearth roars, a hungry, orange beast that eats the logs whole. You sit in the corner of the high-backed chair, your boots still muddy from the lane outside. The house smells of woodsmoke, stale beer, and the sweet, rotting perfume of autumn leaves. It is a heavy smell, the kind that clings to the throat. You are here because you are the best at finding things that are lost. That...
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